Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

almost reverently. I swallowed hard. Then the forensic technicians began handing him bones which he arranged on a large tarp they'd spread out over the plaster-littered floor. A man and a woman, he said. My stomach rebelled, and I fled back through the reception hall and out the front door. Fresh air. I gulped it.
    A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, pushing up against the wrought iron fence. A lone uniformed officer guarded the gate which was no w closed . Orange Street looked like a disaster site, emergency vehicles and police cars parked every which way, their lights throbbing, their radios barking.
    Across the street, Mrs. Burns watched from her front porch, one arm wrapped around a post for support.
    "Ashley!" a familiar voice called.
    I scanned the faces in the crowd and spotted Binkie. The officer opened the gate for me and let me out. I pushed through the crowd to join Binkie at the curb. His little band of tourists surrounded him. They had set out on the Ghost Walk tour and ended up at a murder scene.
    Several years ago, Sherman and Muffie Warner, the couple who live in the Italianate house on the corner, complained of hearing organ music at night. The rumors that Campbell House was haunted by a ghost organist spread through the town. An Aeolian pipe organ, dating from about 1910, filled one wall of the ballroom on the second floor. I'd heard Jean Campbell play it on a long ago Christmas tour. But a ghost organist? No way!
    "Ashley?" Binkie cried. "What has happened? The police won't tell us anything except that it's police business. Are you all right? Someone said a wall collapsed. Let me take you to your car where you can sit down."
    Binkie instructed his tour group to wait and he took my arm and we bucked the crowd to my car. Once inside, I realized there was no way I would be able to drive away. My station wagon was blocked by a fire truck.
    With Binkie beside me, patting my shoulder and telling me to take deep breaths, to put my head between my knees if I felt faint, I began to relax. He smiled, his fair skin crinkling, his seventy-year-old blue eyes as bright and keen as if they belonged to a seventeen-year-old. He had on a moss green felt hat with a jaunty little brown speckled feather. His favorite brown and cream herringbone tweed jacket was holding up well despite constant wearing. Brown corduroy slacks looked soft and comfortable, as did his brown suede Hush Puppies.
    Binkie is a Professor Emeritus at UNCW's History Department. No one knows more about the history and folklore of the Lower Cape Fear region. He has authored many scholarly book s on the subject. With his friends -- with everyone -- he is kindly and gracious, a Southern gentleman of the old school. I had moments when I wished I were a handsome seventy-year-old matron so we could fall in love.
    As if reading my mind -- and sometimes he does -- he reached out and cradled my hand in both of his. His hands are worn like everything else about him, but offered reassurance and comfort. After Daddy died, Binkie stepped into my life and I leaned on him. He seemed to need someone to need him, for he had never married and had no family. We'd gotten together every time I came home on a school break.
    With tears welling in my eyes, I blurted out the whole story of the accident, of finding the skull, and how the medical examiner discovered the bones of two bodies.
    "Oh, I knew it ,” he exclaimed. “ I knew something dreadful had happened here. Your discovery explains why this house has been the site of so many disturbances these past several years. Places have spirits too, you know; I've sensed that the spirit of this house i s grieving."
    "You really believe that, don't you?"
    He squeezed my hand. "There is much that is unseen by humankind, Ashley dear. The more we discover, the more we realize how much there remains to be discovered. ”
    He patted my hand and then let it go. "Now, I think you should call Melanie. She won't be able to drive her car into this horrific traffic jam, but perhaps she can meet you somewhere nearby for lunch, then take you home. Don't even think of going back to your studio. Now, would you like me to escort you to the riverfront? I must shepherd my little flock there."

    And so my sister Melanie had driven in from the beach to meet me at the Pilot House Restaurant. Now she dropped her phone in her purse and said, "Sorry about that, sweetie . Business, you know. Now tell me everything.”
    Quickly, I began my